


Shall I Compare Thee?

by WhisperingOrchard



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Humor, M/M, References to Shakespeare, awkward high school boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperingOrchard/pseuds/WhisperingOrchard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has never loathed the first-name alphabetization of his contacts list more so than on prom night.<br/>Or,<br/>In which Jean accidentally asks Marco to prom instead of Mikasa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall I Compare Thee?

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble prompt from tumblr that I received a while back.

_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_

_Thou art more lovely and more temperate._

_Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,_

_And summer's lease hath all too short a date._

_Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,_

_**Click here to donate $5 and get unlimited access to Shakespearetopia!_

_Prom?_

_Yes/No_

_Please text back within the hour._

~w~w~w~

His plan is foolproof.

Ghosting the pad of his thumb over the “send button”, Jean Kirschstein inhales a sharp, cold breath of spring air before pushing down on the screen—message sent.

Heh, and Jaeger said he didn’t have the balls to ask Mikasa to prom.

Not that he can expect much different from Eren, considering his lack of comprehension, vapid expression, and just… general _stupidity_. Why, it isn’t as if Eren has a date to prom or anything yet, so where does he get off on mocking Jean’s lack of a romantic life? Jaeger couldn’t snag a date if some girl showed up on his doorstep, gave him a lap dance, and begged on hands and knees to go to the dance with him. He’s just that incapable (not that he would ever be offered a lap dance in the first place, since Eren’s lap is pretty much the most unappealing lap in all of lap-dom—e-erm, so he has heard, anyway. Jean knows next to nothing about Eren’s lap, and he is, quite frankly, perfectly okay with that).

And Eren certainly isn’t capable of ~~plagiarizing~~   ~~copying-and-pasting~~   writing such romantic poetry either. Assuming Mikasa hasn’t some bizarre plethora of knowledge on Shakespeare, she should, sensibly, fall head over heels for Jean after receiving such a heartfelt message. Generally speaking, Mikasa isn’t one to sway easily, but she is far from heartless, and what better way to appeal to a woman with heart than sending her a sappy poem about purest love? He’d be damned if any lady (or man, for that matter) isn’t affected emotionally by an affectionate sonnet (er, near-sonnet—Jean was far too eager to send this poem, and didn’t bother looking up any websites that had more than five lines available for free [but there was no way in _hell_ that he was paying five bucks for freaking _Shakespeare_ —he’s not Armin, after all).

The phone in his trouser pocket vibrates after two minutes of impatient pacing in the school courtyard, and in his scramble to pick it up, it flies from his fingers and hits the brick with a thud—thank the gods for Otterboxes. Hurriedly, he leans down and swipes it from the ground, unlocking it with tremorous fingers and opening his message app—his eyes frantically flit across the screen, reading the incoming message below the poem he sent mere minutes ago.

_This is so sudden… Gosh… I didn’t know you felt that way… ^///^_

_But, anyway, I’d love to go with you! We can talk about plans at lunch. See you then… Thou art lovely as a temperate spring as well, heh heh.  ;)_

... She actually… _accepted?_

A feathery sensation tingles beneath Jean’s ribs as he rereads the message with scarlet cheeks; he bears what he believes is the stupidest smile in existence, but he hardly cares at this point. He flattered _Mikasa_ —he successfully wooed _Mikasa Ackerman._ Not even the greatest men of their time can boast such prowess in love—nobody, not even Eren, can reduce Mikasa to blushing over text message. Jean Kirschstein, Master of Love—King of Flattery—

—so why does the top of the screen read “Marco Bodt”?

…

…….

…

… There’s no way… He didn't misclick the name...?

…

………….

…

Son of a _bitch_.

~w~w~w~

Jean has never loathed the first-name alphabetization of his contacts list more so than on prom night itself.

“Jean?” Leaning his chin on his palm, Marco hunches forward a bit, seeking out the other’s citrine eyes with his own. “Are you okay?”

Hah! What hilarity! Is he okay? Oh, yes, dearest Marco, he is absolutely and undeniably fan-fucking-tastic, particularly sitting here at the table nearest the dance floor and watching Mikasa slow-dancing with Armin Arlert—freaking _Armin Arlert_ —over himself, all because of a mix-up and an accidental text message. Sure, he could have sent the message to Mikasa after realizing his mistake—and, as such, turned Marco down—but given his best friend’s apparent jollity at the prospect of taking Jean to the dance, he couldn’t find it in him to explain that this was little more than a slipup.

And don’t even get him _started_ on Eren’s reaction upon discovering Jean’s prom plans.

He wants nothing more at this point than to go home and drown his romantic failures in ice cream and Big Red soda.

“No, Marco, I’m not okay.” A melancholic sigh slips out past Jean’s lips. “This dance sucks.”

His freckled companion cracks a half-smile at Jean's blatancy. “The decorations are kind of tacky, huh?”

“ _Everything_ about it is tacky. I’m ready to go home.”

“But we’ve only been here for ten minutes…” Marco’s eyes linger on Jean’s face for a moment longer, darting across his features in search of something or other—Jean hardly cares at this point. “… Come on, let’s dance.”

One of Jean’s eyebrows rises inquiringly, though the frown does not lift from his lips. “Dance?”

“You know, moving your feet, to the beat of music—”

“Nah, really?” Chancing one final glance in Mikasa’s direction, Jean shrugs his shoulders and stands from the chair, turning to face Marco with a mildly begrudged glint in his eyes. Oh, to hell with it—to hell with Mikasa. He doesn’t give a crap anymore; nothing can remedy this situation, and there’s no point in pretending that it can. “Whatever—one song.”

At this, Marco’s gaze lights up in delight; smiling fondly, he rises from the chair and jerks his head in the direction of the dance floor. “Sounds good to me.”

At times, Jean can admit to enjoying his companion’s cheery disposition, for what better way to brighten one’s day than to look to the brighter side of things? Unfortunately, in this moment of self-doubt and downheartedness, he wants little more than to rip the smile from Marco’s face, crumple it up, and toss it into the trash like a cheeseburger wrapper. Nonetheless, he chances a feigned grimace and follows his friend out into the crowd, coming to a halt near the middle in an effort to better blend in.

“Uh, so…” Tugging at his collar, Jean nibbles awkwardly at the inside of his cheek and glances up at Marco, who comes to stand before him; the shorter boy almost flinches away when Marco steps nearer to ensnare Jean’s waist in his arms. “Whoa, hey, wait a minute. What makes _me_ the girl here?”

“Ah, sorry—I, uh…” A flustered crimson dapples his freckled cheeks; his eyes avert in uncertainty and a crooked smile grows on his lips. “I’ve never danced with another guy before… Where do we put our hands…?”

Jean deadpans. Could this prom situation be any _worse?_ Save for a sudden zombie apocalypse breaking out on the dance floor, he doesn’t think it could (well, unless he was dancing with Eren—then he would probably just throw himself out the window). “Hell if I know—just, er, just… Fuck it.” He flings his arms around Marco’s waist in return, swaying a bit awkwardly as the taller boy pulls them flush together—their feet bump almost immediately, and their arms chafe a little as they begin turning.

“I don’t think this is quite it…” Marco mumbles, shrugging his shoulders. “… but I don’t mind.”

Oh, _sure_ you don’t. You’re absolutely freaking _peachy_ with just about anything, aren’t you? Does Marco ever feel upset, perturbed, or furious—over anything? Jean does not believe he has witnessed one account of his upperclassman friend experiencing a state of pure rage—but, then, perhaps that’s for the best. It balances well with Jean’s frequent anger.

He can feel the wild palpitating of Marco’s heart against his chest, the rapid, short breaths flitting out from his parted lips—his face is still quite red, too. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah…” Subconsciously, Marco tightens his hold on Jean’s waist and pulls him nearer; his face turns suddenly—his nose delves into the short strands of light hair that fray out from Jean’s scalp. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

… Call it petty, but Jean cannot help the feathery sensation rising in his chest.

Nobody… Well, to be frank, nobody has ever held him in such a way.

It’s awkward and clumsy, yeah, but… All the same, he feels strangely at home in the other boy’s hold. The affection in his tone—the warmth of his caramel gaze—the gentle whisper of his lips against Jean’s temple… It’s almost surreal, and yet, he cannot help but wonder how deeply Marco’s affection runs—

—Or, rather, how long he has allowed himself to linger on any potential feelings for his younger friend.

And, despite himself, Jean slowly, gradually, allows his face to lower and his eyelids to slip shut. He can humor Marco, he supposes—and who knows? Maybe this is the start of something more between them—he still has his doubts, but all the same, he is more than willing to give Marco this much.

And, despite their awkward gaits and the sore rubbing of their clothed arms, they remain as such for three songs.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And then they go to IHOP and make out in the car before going inside to eat pancakes. Yep.
> 
> Apparently, contrary to most of this pairing's fanbase, I cannot write angsty things with Jean and Marco. Only dorky, fluffy things. Like, except for Routine, everything I've written about them has been humor-based. :|


End file.
